To the Great Western Wood
by Serenity Song
Summary: Six years have passed since the Pevensies' Coronation at Cair Paravel, and King Edmund the Just finds his title and throne being challenged... [Bookbased Moviebased]
1. Of Dying

_**Disclaimer:** There is nothing in this universe that I own._

_**Note:** I had at first considered writing this as a one-shot, but found that it might work better as a multi-chapter piece. If anyone has ever read the children's picture book Mufaro's Beautiful Daughters (by John Steptoe) some aspects of the plot may seem familiar to you._

"_**Speech"**_

**_/Thoughts/_**

_To the Great Western Wood_

_By Serenity Song_

_Chapter One: Of Dying_

Six years to the day have passed since he first visited the Great Western Wood, to which Aslan has proclaimed him king. Then it had been about three months after their coronation, and with most of the Witch's creatures routed, he and his three siblings had thought it best to survey their realms, and take stock of the damage they would find there.

They went together on that first visit, and every year since, he has returned on the same date. Susan had gone with him that second visit, Lucy the third, and Peter the fourth and fifth.

He had rather hoped they would come with him on this, the sixth trip, but Peter's away fighting Giants on the Northern Frontier, and Susan and Lucy are at Cair Paravel.

And he has been restless ever since leaving the castle early this morning.

It is a vague sort of restlessness that plagues him, and he senses no danger to himself, but his thoughts unerringly swerve back to his siblings.

While he has always looked forward to this ride of his, today he has a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. It comes and goes, but it is nonetheless there, and Edmund, who has seen many things happen to many people over the past six years, has an endless store of "what if" scenarios that dance about his head in the daytime and torture his dreams at night.

His subjects and his siblings know better, but in the Southern Countries, below Narnia's border, whispers and rumors fly about the youngest king. In Archenland, where the people are sympathetic and friendly toward the Narnians and their regents, a man or a woman might say to his or her neighbor, "Have you heard about the young Narnian king? Oh, no, not the High King. No, the brother. Yes, him. They say he never sleeps."

Then that neighbor might say in return, "The poor lad. I hear he's cursed."

The Archenland royalty hear these rumors, and since they are such wonderful friends with the Narnian monarchs, do everything in their power to right those tales.

But since kings and queens are such interesting people to gossip about, the neighbors go on telling.

Edmund sometimes thinks those rumors are closer to the truth than many would like to believe. Even his siblings aren't aware of the many nights he _has_ stayed up. Peter notices the dark shadows beneath his eyes, but never comments on them. After all, he sometimes gets them, too. Lucy finds him catching a nap under a tree in the garden, but never objects. After all, she's quite happy to take a nap, too. Susan watches him gaze off into space, but never complains. After all, she's always known he's the thoughtful sort and is perfectly content to daydream, too.

Farther South lie lands not so friendly to Narnia. In Calormen, where Narnia is regarded with contempt and fear, the whispers are darker, the rumors more sinister. One neighbor might covertly tug on another's sleeve and lead him into a side room. And with merely a candlestick between them, they'll lean close and barely breathe, "Did you know? The youngest white barbarian lord is suicidal."

"What awful knowledge is this?" that other might ask, askance. "Does he not know the great poet that once said, 'Break not the stem of the flower, lest its lifeblood be poisoned?'"

But they are, after all, barbarians, and wouldn't know about such things as great poets. The Tisroc (may he live for ever) hears these whispers, and since he's such a wonderful enemy of the Narnian monarchs, does everything in his power to encourage those stories.

And since barbarian lords and ladies are such horrifyingly fascinating creatures to gossip about, the neighbors go on whispering.

Edmund sometimes wonders why he _isn't_ suicidal. But then he just has to think of Aslan or look at his brother and sisters. Susan would be hurt and blame him. Lucy would not understand and life would lose a little bit of its joy for her. Peter would be shattered and blame himself.

As a middle child of four, he had become accustomed to competing for attention—although there never was any lack of it, as he can now see—and as such, was rather a selfish little beast at times, especially after he began attending some awful place called 'boarding school.'

Now, however, most of that has changed. Although he values his family's lives above all else (and it is in this that he knows he still is selfish), he does not value his own nearly so much.

And it has led to many a tearful quarrel with all three of his siblings.

He still remembers one of his most recent arguments with Peter. They had spent a grand hour bringing down the walls of the healers' ward around them in a shouting match which ultimately ended with the older of the two sinking down on Edmund's hospital bed in tears and yelling, "By Aslan's Mane, Ed! Are you absolutely determined to kill yourself before you reach twenty!"

He is only sixteen. And of course he doesn't say anything because he hates making Peter cry.

It is this argument, and that now-healed-injury, which made Peter forbid him from accompanying his older brother to the Northern Frontier.

He at first fought it. But Peter knows his younger brother well, and when he invoked all his power as High King and, more simply, pleaded with Edmund to trust him, the younger king found himself only able to obey.

It is perhaps one of the hardest decisions he has ever had to make. As it is, he still isn't sure he won't about-spur and head for the North.

Only the date, and the knowledge of how it might affect Peter and his campaign, stay his charge.

He has no time to further contemplate that situation, however, for with a sudden, almighty crack, one of the great trees tumbles across his path.

His horse rears and whinnies, and as he struggles to hang on, and struggles to calm the animal (it is, after all, a dumb animal; and when I say dumb, I mean it does not speak), leaves swirl and the tree reverts to her Dryad form.

The horse neighs, and shies back, all four hooves on the ground now. He whispers a quick, soothing litany into the mare's ear, and when the animal calms, he bids her stay and hastily dismounts from the saddle.

It is cruel fate indeed to see one of the blithe, beautiful tree-folk die, for as he reaches her side and falls to his knees beside her, he sees that the vivacity and brightness, indicative of a healthy Dryad, are fading. She is gray now, no longer bright or colorful. And it is by this sign that he knows he is too late.

As he eases her into his arms, tenderly cradling her upper body, her eyes flicker open halfway and glazed, fall on him. Her lips barely move as she speaks, "M'…M'Lord?"

He smiles sadly at her. "Aye, fair one."

A faint smile touches her lips. "No…no longer so fair…my Lord."

He keeps his smile even as his eyes water with tears. "Yet beauty you are."

Her smile remains as her eyes slip shut. He almost thinks she has passed on, when she speaks again, voice no more than a weak whisper, "M'…M'Lord?"

He starts. "Fair one?"

"M-Might I ask…a small…favor of you? S-Such a trifle…really," her voice rasps and she no longer has the strength to raise her eyelids.

"Ask away, fair one," he manages thickly. By repetition of her address he hopes he can keep her in this world but a little longer.

"M-My trunk…" she tries to raise a delicate hand and can't. But Edmund knows what she means, for he sees the newly-made stump close to the edge of the path. "M-My seedling…" she tries to clip a thin strand of hair and can't. But Edmund knows what she wants, so he first asks permission—to which she consents—and does it for her. "P-Please, Your Majesty…would you…would you carry me there?"

He does, and she is so feather-light that a single tear rolls down his cheek and is lost among her graying and crumbling hair. He does not notice the brief splash of green that fades as quickly as it appeared.

They have reached her stump, and he gingerly settles her between the nooks of its two largest roots where she curls up for the last time.

Then he kneels, and carefully scraping away the detritus, plants that single hair before warmly covering it with the same soil he has just moved.

She has managed to open her eyes the tiniest bit to watch him, and now when he looks at her, she smiles drowsily at him and tries yet again to raise her hand. Yet again, she is not able to.

So he takes her hand—gently—and places it over the little mound he has made.

Her smile widens by the smallest fraction and with a final, quiet breath, she passes from this world.

It happens shockingly fast.

Within a moment she has gone from gray to deep, dark, rich black, and then she is no longer a she but an it—for the body has deteriorated and become topsoil, which will nourish the seedling that has been planted.

Such is the way of things.

But as he stands, swiping his furiously watering eyes, he can't help but feel a heaviness in his heart that even the knowledge of a fresh, young tree soon to thrive near this stump cannot ease.

Slowly, he walks back to his horse, and for a long moment he merely stands there, face buried in the mare's warm neck as he lets his tears freely flow.

A few minutes later, the mare whickers softly at him and nips at his sleeve. It is time for them to move on.

He remounts his saddle, and murmuring a few words of thanks into her speckled ears, lightly digs his heels into her sides. They set off at a canter.

He does not look back at the stump, nor did he check it for signs of blight or ax marks. It does not matter how she died, it matters only that she's dead.

And as he lets the balmy breeze dry his tears, he promises himself that he will visit that spot every year.

_Tbc_


	2. Of Age

_**Disclaimer:** There is nothing in this universe that I own._

_**Note:** I've posted the second chapter. I know it's been a while, but college simply can't be ignored :sighs: much as I like it._

_**Reviews:** Thank you to the 12 of you who have reviewed, you have no idea how much I appreciate them :smiles:._

"_**Speech"**_

_**/Thoughts/**_

_To the Great Western Wood_

_By Serenity Song_

_Chapter Two: Of Age_

An hour has passed since he encountered the Dryad. The sun now hangs at roughly its one o'clock position in the sky. He has just finished watering his mare, and has himself eaten a bit and drunk a little from the stream they are stopped at. But his stomach yet turns at recent memories, and he doubts he will be able to eat anymore for a while.

And it is by such signs that his siblings can usually tell when something has gone quite amiss. For although Edmund may be unaware of these signals most of the time, Peter, Susan, and Lucy are not, and he often catches himself wondering just how they can tell. He chalks it up to intuition.

Edmund swings himself up onto the mare's back, once more quietly grieving the loneliness of the woods. Oh, he knows there are tree spirits and subjects that live among these great trees, but after having seen one of them die, he would have very much liked to have had one of his siblings there with him.

So it is a quiet, solitary ride that he and his mount embark on towards the center of the wood.

The Western Woods are thick and deep. Detritus, pine needles, and floor growth pad the mare's hoof-beats as they continue cantering along. Occasionally a Talking Hedgehog or a Faun or a Dwarf may appear from within the many hundreds of groves or dozens of caves, for this path is a well-known one.

They greet their younger monarch with smiles and cheerful "Hellos!" and Edmund smiles back, returning the greeting.

What he doesn't know is that these subjects notice what his siblings have been noticing for the past six years.

Queen Lucy's countenance is perpetually sunny. Queen Susan's laughter is perpetually clear. High King Peter's smile is perpetually content.

But King Edmund's eyes are perpetually shadowed. And it worries his subjects—as it does his siblings—because they have become quite fond of their four youthful monarchs, and have almost forgotten a time when there was a White Witch or an everlasting winter.

It is a very deep-rooted fear in his siblings—that they may one day lose him. Somehow it is more painful to imagine losing him to his own self-torment, rather than to a battle or wound or sickness. Then, at least, he would not die hating himself.

And Edmund does not think much of himself. How can he? He knows, even though his brother and his sisters have tried to keep it from him, what Aslan did for him that night at the Stone Table. He knows, terribly and awfully well, the story of his own redemption—even though he still believes he should never have been redeemed.

These are thoughts, fears, which he has never told Peter and the girls. But they somehow know, anyway. He can see the pain in their eyes when they look at him sometimes.

And he hates himself even more for it—for the guilt in Peter's, the sorrow in Susan's, and the anxiety in Lucy's. It is a vicious cycle he has trapped himself in, and he cannot break free.

IOIOIOIOIOIOI

When she appears out of nowhere, it startles him, and he sharply reins his mare.

"Madam," he manages, just able to maintain _some_ sense of dignity, "I apologize. I did not see you there."

She gives a wizened, toothless smile where she sits on an aged stump, and her voice creaks pleasantly when she speaks, "Ach, don't worry none, lad. I'm jus' restin' here after haulin' this bundle o' wood for a wee bit." She waves a many-wrinkled-hand at said bundle near her feet. "Them…oh what d'ye call it…them dryads are gracious kind to let me have some o' their pilings for firewood. These old bones jus' don't have th' same juice they used to, s'all."

Edmund dismounts from his mare and gives a graceful bow. "Allow me to be of service to you, then," he offers and her eyes widen as she catches sight of his crown.

"Oh, m'good lord, no!" she protests, trying to gain her feet. "No, I'm but an ol' woman, and for certs not somebody a strappin' young man like yerself ought to worry his head 'bout."

The sixteen-year-old king smiles, a small but truly genuine smile, and places a friendly hand on her arm. "Madam, it is fine. I serve my people, and certainly do not object to helping you," he advises warmly. Before she can protest further, he leans down and snags the bundle of wood, hefting it under his arm. "Where to?"

Her smile is back, and brilliant as ever. "Thank ye kindly, m'lord. Jus' down this path and 'round the bend a ways."

The young monarch gives a shrill whistle and his mare trots over to him. He pats her neck fondly a moment before placing a hand on her nose and murmuring firmly, "Stay."

The mare whickers and gently nudges his cheek, eliciting a soft laugh, but he knows she will listen.

They start walking down the path the elderly matron has indicated, and Edmund carries the wood under one arm and offers his other arm to her. Their pace is slow, but he does not mind. "Have you come from Archenland?" he asks, not terribly suspicious, merely curious.

The smile that touches her lips is mysterious. "Ay, that I may have. But please ye, m'lord, I have lived 'ere since…oh, before I remember."

"Perhaps as an infant, then, or a very young child," Edmund remarks, still smiling.

When the old woman turns to him as they continue walking, it is with an odd expression in her eyes. Eyes, he realizes, which are the most extraordinary color green. The look on her face, however, is warm when she reflects thoughtfully, "Forgive th' addled musin' of an ol' woman, m'lord, but…yer not much out o' th' cradle yerself, are ye?"

Edmund is at first startled. That is not a question one expects from a stranger. Then he thinks he ought to take offense from that statement. But he doesn't. Instead, he smiles again, "I suppose to you I must be. How wonderful to have lived all those years, seen so much."

She chuckles. "Oh, it has its high points, sure enough. Though it got frightful cold a great many years back. I s'ppose she's gone, is she? That dratted witch…Jadis, was it?"

Edmund stiffens slightly at the mention of the White Witch, for quite unlike his subjects, he has never forgotten _Her_. Though at times he has very much wanted to.

The elderly matron does not appear to notice, facing forward again, eyes still odd and once more looking thoughtful. "Don't matter now, I s'ppose. She's dead. Seasons will come an' go, kings will rise an' fall, evil will be 'ere one day an' gone th' next. That's th' way life is, s'all." Suddenly, she turns and taps Edmund lightly on the nose, smiling her toothless grin, "An' a young'un like yerself oughtn't carry 'round an ol' man's burden."

Edmund, who has been listening to her quietly for the past few minutes, now smiles ruefully at her. "I suppose not," he concedes softly. Then turns back to face the path, thoughtful.

He decides not to question her knowing something that really only his siblings and Aslan do. And wonders if his path wasn't somehow fated by the Great Lion to cross hers. Goodness knows, he and his brother and sisters hadn't the same wisdom she did, nor her many years of experience. Only one with so much experience could have come up with such a statement.

For the first time in six years, his load doesn't feel quite so heavy.

"'Ere we are!" she suddenly exclaims.

Edmund, startled out of his musings, looks up and comes face to face with a cave that resembles Mr. Tumnus's to a certain degree. He remembers that there are many caves like this scattered throughout the Western Woods, and isn't terribly surprised to find that this woman lives in one.

When they reach the front door, he sets down the bundle of wood and stepping back from the elderly matron, gives her another graceful bow and straightens with a grateful smile. "It has truly been a pleasure, Madam, and I am indebted to you. You have given me something that no one else has."

She flushes slightly, extraordinary green eyes sparkling, and waves him off. "Ach, was only an ol' woman's ramblin', nothin' too special in that." A cool breeze blows, and she shivers a little.

Edmund, noticing this, unclasps his cloak and shrugs it off his shoulders, handing it to her. She tries to protest, but he insists, still smiling, "Keep it, Madam. Allow me this one small favor."

Her flush deepens a bit and she pulls it around her own shoulders like a shawl. "Many thanks, m'lord," she murmurs humbly.

The sixteen-year-old takes her hand and gives it a brief squeeze. "Until next time, Madam," he replies, and then sets off back down the path, already marking it in his mind for a future visit.

He is about halfway along the path when he turns one last time, expecting to see the well-worn, slightly overgrown path they had taken to get to the old woman's hovel. He is puzzled when he does not.

Edmund's brow furrows as he tries to figure out what happened, but at last he shrugs, thinking perhaps that he misjudged his course. Yet, when he looks forward, it is to find his mare grazing in the clearing he and the elderly matron had left not ten minutes before, right along the main path.

With a sigh, he decides not to question this either, but rather trust to Aslan that everything is all right, in spite of how very odd this adventure is turning out to be.

As he returns to his mount, Edmund's step is lighter than it has been in a while—hardly noticeable, but lighter nonetheless—and (though he is unaware of it) a layer of the shadow has been peeled away.

_Tbc_


End file.
